Trial By Fire
by carrotface
Summary: Clearly, Yongha is a vicious bastard. Shindou, though, just doesn't know how to walk away. Playing with fire can only end in one way...Part 2 is up!
1. Chapter 1

PART 1

At night, Yongha dreams of fire. They are great, choking flames, twice his height, and fearsome. They have no beginning and no end; they are just _there, _as he is. The flames are in a great circle around him and although he cannot _hear _anything, he knows somehow that there is a great roaring all around him: the sound of burning things. He tries to scream but cannot, his throat closes up and the only noise he makes is in his dream specter's mind; it is often so in dreams. He looks up, and there is no sky, no stars, just a great suffocating wall of nothingness.

The mind of a person inside a dream is an interesting thing, like a curve spiraling inward, or looking into the eyes of one's own reflection; he remembers later that everything is strangely colourless, except for the sunflowers. The sunflowers that he has been standing neck-deep in, that burned in the fire. He is drowning in the field of sunflowers. They are a vivid, poisonous orange, a colour that always makes him sick, with a faint revulsion that makes the back of his throat tingle.

It is only when he can feel the flames licking his body (or knows that he should be able to feel it) that he wakes up, with a start. His skin is damp, and the sound of his harsh, ragged breathing is swiftly consumed by the invading darkness of the room. He goes back to sleep, and this time slumbers dreamlessly.

"I had a dream last night," Yongha announces in the morning, against the whirring sound of the food processor and the sizzling of bacon in the kitchen. With an expert motion, he flips the strips of bacon onto two plates, and along with buttered toast, sets them on the dining table. His sister grunts as she blearily lifts her third cup of coffee to her mouth and rubs the sleep-dirt out of her eyes. She is already dressed in the neat formal three-piece suit that marks her as a junior partner in a law firm. Her clothes give her away, but so do the bags under her eyes. Yongha is, blessedly, a 'damned morning person': otherwise they would both probably starve. As it is, the range of Yongha's culinary skills just about extends to bacon, toast, eggs and instant noodles. Ten minutes later, as his sister, the pig, is inhaling _his _bacon and slathering _his _toast with Nutella, they return to the subject of his dream.

Or, rather, he brings it up again in his usual insistent manner ("Like a mongrel mutt worrying at a bone," as his sister had loudly complained once). "So," he repeats determinedly, "I dreamt last night."

His sister is finally alert enough for his words to register. She looks alarmed. "What kind of dream are we talking about?" She asks, faint curls of suspicion wrapping around her words. "Is this the kind of dream that your sister would _not_, under any circumstances, want to know about?" She looks faintly horrified when Yongha laughs, as though her worst fears have materialised. "It was a _dream_-dream," he says reassuringly, sipping a protein shake and promptly dumping the contents into the sink. "I was burning, in a field of sunflowers." It feels odd and a little dramatic to be saying it out loud. He is annoyed. Why can't his dreams be less theatrical?

His sister looks at him thoughtfully and, contrary to his expectations, doesn't laugh. As seconds tick by, he grows more irritated with himself. He feels stupid and thinly stretched. "Well?" He demands, getting up to wash the dishes in the sink. "No advice? No suggestions? Not even any unwelcome remarks on the state of my hair?" She gives a low laugh, a little scratchy from downing five cups of coffee, and moves to help him with the dishes. He swats her hand away and points to the dishcloths. "I rinse, you dry." He commands, pushing her away. She makes an "Mm," of assent and they stand in companionable silence.

After the last plate is dried, she clears her throat. It's a habit of hers that Yongha has picked up on: she does it whenever she has something of significance to say. "I think…that you're confused about something. Yongha, clearly there's some kind of a problem. Maybe you know what it is; maybe you aren't admitting to yourself that there is one at all, but…you just got back from a tournament, and you're tired…just think about it, ok?" And she lightly brushes his shoulder in the fleeting, fond way that she does whenever she is worried about him. He hates it. Hates that he has the ability to upset her, angry that a silly dream has the power to bother him, that he doesn't know what is wrong with himself, that he still has to play six-dans in tournaments before qualifying to the later rounds. He notices something now: a furled ball of white-hot ugliness inside him.

He lets the heat spread lightning-quick to his fingers, and holds it there until he can feel the viciousness, waiting to lash out. It makes him feel powerful. And he forces it to subside. It shrinks and fits snugly inside his belly, in a pocket of his duodenum, humming with energy and mingling with the blood there until that is _all he is. _With a sudden twist of his neck, he remembers where he is. He is his outside self. Disoriented, he looks around the now-spotless kitchen. The apartment is quiet. His sister must have already left. The thought that he has been standing dreamily while his sister moved on, unnerves him.

He has a match today, but only in the late afternoon. He is truthful enough to admit that, aside from Go, he really doesn't have a life. Such a situation, he knows is common for Go pros. People who spend the greater portion of their lives locked in a deadly battle for dominance over a wooden board that acts as a metaphor for life can't be expected to be…normal. He _knows_ this. So what if he doesn't have a giggly girlfriend on his arm? So what if that's a little pathetic at his age? There is no way that he is the only person in such a position. And he has Go. That is enough. It has always been enough.

He leaves for the institute at nine in the morning. His early arrival excites nothing more than a raised eyebrow by the security guard who gives his identification card a careless inspection. Go pros come at all times of the day and night…international players have erratic schedules, after all. The Korean Go Institute isn't some backwoods little two-storey in a corner of the cramped city. It is an elegant edifice, thoroughly modern and imposingly large. But, more than the beauty of its architecture and the meticulousness of its construction, it is _home. _He feels _right, _for the first time today.

At nine in the morning, the institute is buzzing with what he dismissively thinks of as 'lesser' work: the kenkyuusei matches and the lower-dan matches, mostly. The first floor is very quiet, and the sound his shoes make against the tiles is disproportionately loud. He feels like the walls are reproaching him, and as he passes some of the rooms, he can see why they might. The pro-exam matches are going on. Now _that _takes him back a few years…

The elevator is stuck on the fourth floor-which is mildly irritating-so he takes the stairs. He probably would have anyway. As his feet clack against the spotted, dark granite floor, he can hear the low, uneven buzz of voices coming from the entertainment room. Yongha frowns slightly. Intellectually, he knows that such a room exists, but that room is always empty. What do Go players do for entertainment? Well…they play Go. He can't think of a reason why anyone should be inside there. Cautiously, he raps on the door: once, twice, thrice; there is no change in the volume of the voices, he assumes that they haven't heard him. He opens the door anyway.

There are six or seven people—all Go pros—around his age or a little older, clustered around the television which, he notices, has been connected to someone's laptop. No one turns to look at him apart from Suyong, and that is odd in itself. He waves his hand to catch Suyong's eye, and drags him away from the crowded area in front of the television. Suyong looks at him with a mixture of exasperation and annoyance. It has, over the last few days, become his default expression whenever Yongha is in the vicinity. "What are you doing here?" Suyong demands, looking back towards where the others are. Yongha is indignant. "Isn't that something I should be asking you?" He retorts, glaring back at the younger boy.

"Your match isn't until the afternoon!" Suyong protests, and although that isn't really any kind of answer, Yongha feels a bit better. It is a little petty to like that Suyong memorises his match schedule, but Yongha has never been a very mature person. Anyone who knows him will easily attest to his puerility.

"What _are_ you doing here?" He asks as they move closer to the screen.

"It's a match." Suyong explains tersely. Yongha snorts. "I figured that out, funnily enough. Must have been the nineteen-by-nineteen board and the black and white stones on the screen that gave it away. Who's playing? And why do we care?"

"Why don't you take a closer look at who's playing?" drawls an amused voice behind them. They both turn around, and to Yongha's indignation, it is Irufhan, who is carrying an armful of chips and soda. "You invited _him_?" He spits at Suyong, who has the grace to look a little guilty. "What does he have to say about this game that-" He stops abruptly, because the thought that has been growing at the back of his head has crystallized. There is something in the pattern of the stones, in the deception of the technique, that strikes a chord of familiarity, of _knowing, _inside him. "Is this that Shindou's game? Is that why you didn't call me?" Suyong flushes, but meets his gaze squarely. "Look," he says, carefully choosing his words, "When it comes to Shindou…you aren't balanced, alright? I thought watching his game would just make you angry."

Yongha is speechless. "Why—that's not—how—rubbish! I can be balanced! I can contribute! I can be fair and impartial."

He looks at Suyong in a way that is shamelessly pleading (ignoring Irufhan, who looks amused), and the younger boy gives a tiny nod of assent—or defeat, it doesn't matter—and leads him to one of the couches near the screen. "Shindou's playing Serizawa nine-dan to challenge Kuwabara Honinbou next month," Suyong says, once they are settled. "You haven't missed much," he adds in a placating way that makes Yongha feel like a child that is expected to throw a tantrum. Irufhan snorts disbelievingly, "He hasn't missed much? Well, yeah, I guess, if you don't count the _first hand tengen _that Shindou made." The people around them make noises of interest and agreement. "Oh—yes, I suppose," Suyong says, in a horrible attempt at sounding nonchalant, "but Serizawa-sensei recovered didn't he?"

"He lost a lot of territory in that struggle," disagrees a pimply boy to Yongha's left, "Serizawa-sensei was clearly thrown off balance. Shindou pressed him hard…"

Yongha is only listening with half an ear now. He is busy assessing the board, analysing moves and weaknesses. The black and white stones have arranged themselves in a powerful conflict: every inch of territory is hard-won. It is an interesting game; that much he will concede. But that doesn't surprise him; Shindou doesn't seem to possess a single boring or predictable bone in his body. "This move on the upper right," he hears himself saying, "was foolish. Serizawa-sensei capitalised on that weakness and made quite a bit of progress."

"Something seems off about that move," Irufhan says thoughtfully, "I can't place it, but Shindou must have a plan. See how even Serizawa-sensei moves more cautiously than he normally would have? This is nothing like his usual aggressive technique. He senses a trap."

"Serizawa-sensei is very wary against a young three-dan." Someone comments.

"Shindou has a plan." Suyong says confidently. "We don't see it yet, only he knows what will happen. Serizawa-sensei is walking in the dark, toward the edge of a cliff. He will be toppled."

Yongha raises a haughty eyebrow and exchanges a glance with Irufhan. Suyong is taking this hero-worship to unprecedented levels. It's true, though, that Shindou's move on the upper right is…

"A trap." He breathes. "Serizawa-sensei will continue to press the upper right for territory, at which point Shindou's move will come into play. Serizawa-sensei's stones will be trapped."

The room goes very quiet as they try to process what Yongha has said. "Brilliant." Suyong says breathlessly, leaning towards the screen. "This game is Shindou's."

"Not quite," Yongha protests half-heartedly. "If Serizawa-sensei attacks the upper left-"

"He will lose." Irufhan interrupts flatly. "Serizawa-sensei has conceded too much to be able to make up the difference."

"_Now_ he sees the trap," Someone groans. It is painful to watch Serizawa-sensei being crushed, but it is oddly fascinating to see Shindou's plan working so perfectly. Yongha fleetingly thinks of the other boy. Shindou's face is just a blur; he only remembers a horrific set of bleached bangs, and the salty tang of desperation in his own mouth. And, of course, Shindou's voice. That stands out clearly in his mind; or maybe it is Shindou's words that he remembers, and his mind simply attributed a false voice to it. The human mind, he has been told, has an immeasurable ability to compensate, but the thought that he is a liar in his own head is unnerving. And he shouldn't be wasting his time on such a foolish little _boy_ anyway.

"Serizawa-sensei has resigned." Suyong announces then, the triumph unmistakable in his voice. The room erupts into sudden noise, everyone is discussing the game avidly. Yongha just feels strangely hollow.

"So, next month he will play Honinbou Kuwabara." Irufhan remarks, getting up and stretching ostentatiously, "The title matches will be interesting to watch, I'm sure."

"A dog may bark at the moon," Yongha says dismissively. He darts a look at Suyong, expecting to see outrage or indignation. Strangely, the younger boy is smiling. "He will play you in six months." Yongha is confused at the sudden off-topic remark, and it must show on his face. "He will play you in six months," Suyong repeats, his smile widening, "and then you can decide about him. He won't be the same as he was before."

"Well, neither will I," Yongha retorts, "Nothing is the same now as it was before, or has been in the past."

"Enough with the condescension, _sensei_," Irufhan says mockingly, "Don't we get enough of that existential bullshit from Lee-sensei?"

"Irufhan." Suyong says reprovingly. Surprisingly, Irufhan subsides. Yongha tucks that reaction away in his mind to examine later.

Yongha and Suyong while away a few more hours playing speed-Go, but Irufhan is only allowed to watch. "Last time we played you threw the goke at me," Suyong says in a primly disapproving way. Yongha refuses to play Irufhan out of sheer spite, so they endure glowers and snide comments from Irufhan as they plough throw twenty seven games. Suyong is sweating after their twenty seventh game, and Yongha's match is in half an hour anyway, so they stop.

An hour and a half later, Yongha has demolished his opponent and is waiting for him to resign when Suyong come over to look at his progress. His eyes widen as he looks at the board, and turns to Yongha with a question in his eyes. Yongha gestures for silence. His opponent, who is two years older than him, and a six-dan, is contemplating the board. The man is rolling the black stone between his fingers, and his eyes move rapidly over the board. There is a look in his eyes that Yongha is very familiar with—the look of a cornered person with no means of escape. Yongha is content to wait, as the other man is forced to confront the inevitable. Every possible move will lead to the same conclusion—his defeat at Yongha's hands. Finally, he looks up at Yongha, and says quietly—"I resign."

Yongha says "Thank you for the game," distractedly as he looks at the sweat pooled on the other man's upper lip and the strange expression in his eyes. Yongha has seen hurt dogs before—they have the same look of wounded confusion in their eyes, as though the world they were used to betrayed them. It makes Yongha feel strange and off-kilter, drenched in a feeling he would tentatively call 'shame'. The man doesn't offer to discuss the game, and Yongha doesn't want to. The victory is enough. Suyong is quiet as they pull on their shoes and make their way outside.

"That game wasn't like you," he says abruptly, turning accusing eyes on Yongha. Yongha affects surprise. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," Suyong snaps, "You've never crushed an opponent just because you had the ability to. What happened to you?"

"If you must know…I suppose I'm tired of being nice." Yongha says, avoiding Suyong's eyes.

"You don't _have_ to be nice. Going easy on a weaker opponent is just patronising! But that wasn't a strictly professional game either. That was cruel, and you know it, Yongha."

"Don't be so tiresome, Suyong." Yongha says, irritably pulling on his jacket. It looks like it will rain in the evening.

"This is because of Shindou, isn't it?"

"For you, maybe. Then again, everything's about Shindou in your world."

"Stop taking it out on everyone else, just because Shindou made you look like a fool," Suyong says in a low, dark voice. "Wait until you play him, at least. Then you can crush him and dance over his bloody corpse…whatever you want."

"I _will_ crush him. But the other thing sounds like too much effort. Maybe I'll just make him cry again—that's fairly easy to do, right?" Yongha replies, tilting his mouth up with an amusement he doesn't feel. Without a word, Suyong begins to walk away from him, towards the institute.

"Oh, come on! Suyong, take a joke!" He calls after Suyong's retreating figure.

"I'm going to get my jacket," Suyong calls back, "Don't wait for me!" His words are said in a tone approaching a command, and Yongha doesn't force his presence on other people, not even Suyong, so he shrugs and walks away as well. As for the tiny corner of him that is ashamed of itself, well, he ignores it. He is very good at that.

He can still feel the well of viciousness inside him. He has barely spent any of it.

_Shindou, _he thinks, _you really don't know what you're getting into._

END OF PART 1

A/N:

Well, I hope you like my baby! It took me ages to write, and it's nearly seven pages long, the longest fic I've ever written. Yongha in this one is pretty different from the one I wrote about in _Kiai, _I suppose that's because this is less light-hearted. I do think he would have changed after the Hokuto cup, and not necessarily for the better. There is a good guy inside him, though, who we'll see…

Read and Review!


	2. There is a boy in Tokyo

A/N: Thanks to everyone who Reviewed/Fav-ed the first chapter. It made me really happy that you liked it. And to everyone who put this fic on their Alert lists, thanks a lot and I'd be really grateful if you'd tell me what you think. This chapter is a bit shorter than the previous one, and pretty different in tone, imo. I had to change my writing style a bit for this chapter—maybe because Shindou's so wildly different from Yongha. The shorter length of the chapter is because this fic is going to be longer than I thought it would be, so it doesn't make sense to cram the whole story into five monstrous chapters anymore. Enjoy!

It is only when Serizawa nine-dan looks at him across the board for the first time—really _looks_ at him-that Hikaru knows he has won. His deception has worked well, and he has gained a sizable territory from it. The older pro may not have known it consciously, but the moment he looked at Shindou with measuring, wary eyes, he recognized Shindou as an equal. So when the older man actually resigns, Shindou just bows his head and lightly strokes the worn folds of his fan with his index finger lightly and says, "Thank you for the game."

It is not unheard of for altercations to take place after important matches. Go pros are especially well known for exchanging barbs, indulging in mind games and generally sniffing for weaknesses before and after games; Shindou is, after all, ridiculously young to have beaten a nine-dan, so when Serizawa asks to speak to him outside the Room of Profound Darkness, Shindou is a little unsettled. Little thrills of game-lust are still racing up and down his body and Touya—and Isumi and Waya too, probably—are waiting for him in the discussion room, so he says quite clearly, "Sorry, I have friends waiting for me in the discussion room, sensei."

If Sai had been there, he would have probably cried tears of indignation and shame before going up to the other man—who wouldn't be able to see or hear him—and apologizing for Hikaru, but Sai isn't here and Shindou is tired after a three hour game, and, knowing Touya, still has a grueling couple of hours ahead of him, so he doesn't bother keeping himself in check.

Someone else in the room gives a little gasp of indignation and conversation briefly dips as everyone waits to see Serizawa nine-dan's reaction. He just smiles thin-lipped, with his mouth; his hawk-like eyes, though, are still sharp and appraising. "It won't even take a minute; this at least you can spare me," he says with a teasing tone to his voice; Shindou isn't fooled even a little, but vague ideas of treating the loser kindly nag at him, so he says—in a dull, colourless voice he has learnt to use to advantage—"I suppose."

Serizawa's smile is a slit across the expanse of his face, wider this time, and he gently but inexorable leads Shindou—who receives congratulations and exclamations of amazement with good grace- out of the room, and to an empty cul-de-sac whose walls contain only the door to a janitor's closet. For a moment, they just stand there, looking at each other; then, predictably, Shindou's ADD-ness comes into play and he scuffs his ratty sneakers a little moodily against the spotless floor and looks away.

He wishes he could go to the discussion room, where Touya will no doubt have an endless stream of criticisms about his gameplay—anyway, it wasn't _his _fault Serizawa hadn't fallen for his keima in the beginning, and it was sheer carelessness on the other pro's part that Shindou had been allowed to make that seeming-loss of territory into a seki—but he had won, and that was the important thing. He would have to make sure to not play stupidly with Kuwabara, of course; the Honinbou regularly-as he informed Shindou before, with relish-ate children like Shindou to go with his morning sake.

"I wanted to talk about that clever little net you snared me with," Serizawa says, his nostrils flaring white as he remembers how he was tricked. "When did you think of that possibility? Did you prepare it beforehand?"

"I don't plan games out," Shindou says scornfully, "I made it up when I saw your weakness in the upper right, that—"

"I remember very well," Serizawa interrupts, looking at Shindou; his gaze is a little different, but no less unsettling. He looks thoughtful, and a little incredulous, "Clearly," he adds, speaking to himself more than to Shindou, "I underestimated you. Yes, that was the cause of your victory. Obviously, skill had less of a part to play—my carelessness was the root of my weakness."

Shindou is indignant.

"That's cowardly!" Shindou exclaims, "Don't hide behind an excuse like that! Just admit that you lost to me. And anyway," he throws back as he walks away, "_if _you underestimate your opponent, it's insulting to the game. You deserve to lose."

He hurries away, face tight and burning with anger and humiliation; at the same time, a little voice in his mind is chiding him for his hypocrisy—how many times has he undervalued a weaker player? But this is different—he has never disdained another player to their face. Well, not knowingly, anyway. Unsettled, he walks carelessly and bumps right into Touya.

"Shindou—you—where've you _been?_" Touya asks, righteously incensed, "I've been looking for you! We have to discuss the game—and there are some journalists waiting to ambush you in the lobby."

"Oh God," Shindou said fearfully, cutting him off in an unceremonious way, "I have to take the fire escape again. Come_ on _Touya_, _you _want_ to be in that insane crowd of reporters?"

"You should meet with them! Obviously they want to talk to you—you'll be challenging Kuwabara-sensei next month for his title. Although, _how _you did it, I don't know; that keima—_don't _pretend you don't know what I'm talking about!—is possibly the worst move I've seen all week, and _I've _even had tutoring sessions…"

Touya continues to rant as the two of them go down the fire escape attached to the side of the hotel. It is an arduous task as the match was held on the eleventh floor; occasionally, Shindou breaks the monotony of Touya's tirade by weakly interjecting a defense.

"That was a really good move. It's not my fault youdidn't get it! If I had to explain myself to _you _every time I do something that awesome—"

"That move was the furthest from awesome-," here Touya actually draws quotation marks in the air, "-that I can think of! It was unskilled is what it was. Did you just randomly decide to give up three weeks of winning league matches because—I don't even know—did one of your Shonen Jump characters not get a power up or something? Because I can tell you that it would have been easier on all of us if you'd just committed ritual suicide, Shindou."

"Glad to see you're being so completely _rational _about all this_. _Ritual suicide, sure, I'll get right on that. What happened to Waya and Isumi anyway? Did they even watch my game?"

"Of course they watched your game," Touya says a little sniffily, "It was getting a little crowded in the discussion room so they decided to watch it back at their apartment. Ochi and a few of your insei friends are also there, I think."

This takes Shindou by surprise. Panting a little as they reach the second floor, he says, "Did you wait for me here, then?"

Touya scoffs. Or at least it _could _be one, but the effect is lost in the gasps for breath he makes every few seconds. Usually Touya's sneers are artful and precise; they somehow manage to convey the contempt Touya feels for the other person—usually Shindou—and how much better than them Touya is, all at once. Touya's sneers have a way of producing amusing reactions in other people—some wilt, some cower, some run away crying, but Shindou is special. He ignores them, using his special powers of obtuseness.

"Don't flatter yourself. I wasn't exactly _invited _to their apartment_."_

Touya's delivery is scathing, but there is something shockingly new in his tone, something vulnerable and a little sad. The conversation has taken a leap into unsettling territory for Shindou, and he glosses over that uncomfortable statement, cheerfully saying, "I wasn't either."

"Yeah," Touya says, relaxing a little. The sharp edge to the line of his mouth fades.

"Must be one hell of a party," Shindou muses. He is startled by Touya's quiet chuckle.

"Are you hungry?" Touya says in a conciliatory way. "We could go for ramen, if you want."

"Nah," Shindou says, yawning widely and stretching his arms, wincing as he feels something crack. "I think I'll go to bed. I've a morning lesson tomorrow…man, Korean verbs are killing me."

"I could just translate for you, if you want," Touya points out.

"Nah…you don't wanna translate the stuff I plan on telling that guy," Shindou says, smiling crookedly and shaking the hair out of his eyes. Seeing Touya's disapproving look, he adds hurriedly, "See you at the salon at around five, then?"

Touya nods after a moment.

"Goodnight, Shindou."

"'Night, Touya."

END OF PART 2

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